


those ocean eyes

by outrageousfortune



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Curses, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Road Trips, Summer Vacation, mermaid veronica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outrageousfortune/pseuds/outrageousfortune
Summary: But they’ve got an entire month together—four empty weeks, sprawling before them like a flat stretch of sand—and Betty can feel deep in her bones that change is coming.Whether they’re ready for it or not.ORBetty, Archie, and Jughead take to the coast for the summer to escape the mess of Hal's trial.Somewhere in the sea, Veronica heads to the surface with a long-fated curse weighing on her heart.What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay,” says Betty, wincing as she rubs her neck. “How about you pull off at the next exit and we’ll switch for a little while?”

“No, I got this,” Jughead insists, jerking them into another lane. Archie twists in the passenger seat and gives her a wide-eyed look that says _he definitely does not got this_.

By the time another car honks at them, Betty’s had enough. “Jug. Please. Just pull over.”  

“But I—"

Archie places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No one’s knocking your driving, buddy. Just think you deserve a break, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Jughead sounds mollified. “Yeah. Makes sense.”  He pulls over, and Betty turns so he won’t see her eye-roll in the rearview mirror. The three of them have been best friends since practically before they could walk, but increasingly, only Archie has enough patience to humor Jughead’s stubbornness.

Betty tries. She really does. It’s just that when your dad’s on trial for multiple counts of murder, sometimes you have bigger things to worry about than the ego of your friend whose license makes you seriously question the validity of the DMV.

The worn leather seat cracks against her thighs as she swaps places with Jughead. A trickle of guilt worms into her stomach at the hang of his head—she knows she’s been too hard on her friends lately. More apt to snap than soothe, more prone to bicker than cooperate. And they’ve been so understanding—giving her space, bringing back meals from Pop’s, forcing her outside when she’d been holed up in her room for days—but in the face of a desert, every spring of kindness will eventually run dry.

Betty won’t let it come to that.

Steering the old sedan back onto the highway, she resolves to do better. Damper her temper, silver her tongue. Isn’t that the real reason her mother pushed her onto this trip, anyway? The hope that a change of scenery and time spent with her best friends could bring back the “old Betty”—the cheerful, docile girl her mother longed for. Loved. Mourned, even.

Not this sullen creature that had slipped into her clothes and stolen her place.

Betty’s not sure she can ever bring that girl back. But for her friends’ sakes, she’ll try.

So when Jughead asks, voice uncharacteristically small, whether his driving was really _that_ bad, Betty joins Archie in vehement denials until he seems satisfied.

She glances at the passenger seat out of the corner of her eye and nearly chokes. Archie’s lips are pressed so far inward it’s like he’s trying to physically swallow them—or bite back the infectious laughter he’s never been good at controlling. He catches her eye and grins sheepishly, and she stifles a laugh of her own, turning back to the road before Jughead can notice.

A sudden lightness bubbles up through her chest, as warm as the sun rising overhead and as bright as the tang of her lemonade gum.

Maybe her mom was onto something, after all.

The next few hours pass without incident. Archie fiddles with the radio, dialing back and forth until he settles on a station and begins to hum along. Jughead mans the GPS, which Betty soon realizes was a mistake after his directions take them off the highway and curving along back roads and winding mountain passes.

“Jug,” she groans after checking the receipt at their next gas station, “this scenic route isn’t doing so hot for my credit card.”

“C’mon, Betty.” Jughead’s nose is almost pressed to the window. “How’m I supposed to be the next great American novelist without even seeing Americana?”

Betty opens her mouth, but then Jughead adds, almost carelessly, “Besides, Alice can afford it.”

Her mouth snaps shut. He’s right.

The older Betty gets, the more she’s become uncomfortably aware of her big white house, the fleet of cars lying idle in the garage. The fat college fund guaranteed to her since kindergarten. Her family might be fucked up beyond repair, but her mom still foots her bills, and her stomach has never ached from uncertainty of its next meal. And as much as she’d like to pretend otherwise, she still wears the thoughtlessness of her upbringing like a second skin, surfacing in moments like these—a gaudy coat stretched too tight across her shoulders, unwanted, maybe ill-fitting, but hers all the same.

Once again, she resolves to be more thoughtful. Do better. Be as much of a friend to Jug and Archie as they’ve been to herself.

(Her stomach twists. It’s not the first time she’s made that promise.)

A moment before the silence can stretch into awkward territory, Archie saves them by turning up the radio, his voice melding with the smokey tones of John Denver. “ _Guys_. It’s _Take Me Home, Country Roads_ —I think you’re legally obligated to sing along.”

Betty and Jughead share a groan, but despite their half-hearted protestations—“Technically, we’re going in the _opposite_ direction of home, so it doesn’t even apply”—they both join in. Soon the car fills with laughter and music, and they lapse back into comfortable conversation.

Somewhere along the way, Jughead pulls out a book he’d found about seaside legends in preparation for their trip. “How about this one—the fearsome Northeastern Kraken,” he reads, his voice adopting the lilt of a ghost story, “ _a monster so powerful it could flatten towns with a single sweep of its tentacles, but so lethargic it rarely rises from the depths—luckily for ye travelers_.”

“Eh,” says Archie. “So like the Weatherbee of the ocean? Not impressed.”

“Let’s see if you’re still saying that when it stops by Sea-Starbucks and then crushes our cottage,” Jughead grumbles, but flips ahead through the book. “Oh, you’d like _this one_ , though—Rock Coast Mermaids. _‘Beautiful women with silky, flowing tresses—all the better to strangle their unlucky lovers before feasting on their flesh._ ’’” He waggles his eyebrows at Archie. “Sexy ladies, a little bit of danger—just the way you like it, huh, Arch?”

Archie’s smile looks forced. “Yeah,” he says.

Jughead waits for a moment, as if expecting a snarky comment or elaboration. The silence only thickens. Shrugging, he moves on to the next monster, the atmosphere lightening again as he teases a laugh out of Archie by comparing a pack of mindless grindylows to their football team.

The heavy June sun slides from behind the clouds and beats through the windshield. Betty squints against the glare and wonders if this is doomed to be their new normal—the ceaseless back and forth between tension and levity, over and over, until one of them finally works up the guts to lay it all out there.

That day doesn’t seem to be approaching anytime soon.

But they’ve got an entire month together—four empty weeks, sprawling before them like a flat stretch of sand—and Betty can feel deep in her bones that one way or another, change is coming.

Whether they’re ready for it or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Far above, the summer solstice dawns like any other day—but deep in the sea, the flurry of activity proves it’s anything but. 

Veronica’s determined not to be a part of it.

She drifts through her chamber, fingers dragging lightly over the chalky coral walls. Maybe if she stays here, if she spends the next few months gripping the furniture for dear life against the pull, then  _ maybe _ she could avoid what’s to come.

It would be worth it.

“You almost ready?” Toni asks, popping her head through the entryway. The pink strands of her hair shine through her elaborate braids, and her face is flushed, brimming with excitement.  _ She  _ certainly doesn’t have any apprehensions about the coming weeks—and why should she? Her trials are almost two years behind her. And even then, the surface world was always so intoxicating to Toni that even her ordeal seemed to barely leave a dent in her enthusiasm.

But when Toni catches Veronica’s expression, her face drops in sympathy. “Ronnie. It’ll be okay, I promise, alright?” 

Veronica flicks her tail, drifting over to her wardrobe. Her voice rasps with disuse. “Will it?” 

“Of course,” Toni assures her, swimming forward and placing an arm around her shoulder. “But even if it’s not—we’re all here for you.” She pats her arm, smiling softly. “You’re going to survive this.” 

Veronica wishes her meaning was only figurative. 

She lifts her eyes to meet Toni’s, and for the first time, notices the undercurrent of sadness glimmering within them. Veronica’s fins curl with guilt. Toni doesn’t often show it, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t still suffered everything Veronica’s afraid of—and here Veronica has the nerve to mope around like she’s the only one in the whole damn sea who’s got to go through this. 

_ Ronnie, the ocean’s a lot bigger than you or me,  _ her mother chides in the back of her mind. Apparently, that’s a lesson she needs to be continually reminded of.

_ All _ of her people—not just Toni, not just her mom—they’ve all gone through what she’s about to. And yet they still wake up every morning. They still shake the ice from their limbs, swim out into the messy colors of world, paste on bone-white smiles until the expression forms naturally.

Somehow, they bear it. 

And Veronica will, too.

***

She swims to her rock alone.

It’s safer this way. The surface-dwellers don’t notice much, but even their clumsy attentions would surely be piqued by an entire group of women suddenly rising from the craggy shoreline. But a lone girl, walking up the from the coast? Barely worthy of a second glance.

The sun’s just a sliver over the horizon, but it’s enough that she can feel its grip. Scattered across the sea, she knows they can  _ all _ feel it—the invisible yoke pulling them upward, impossible to resist, driving them to land to soak up every minute of summer daylight.

After checking to make sure her tiny stretch of coast is indeed deserted—surface dwellers aren’t usually up this early, but you can never be too careful—Veronica pushes herself up onto the rocky surface.

Immediately, she can feel the changes taking place. She says a silent goodbye to her tail as its glittering purple scales fade, her fins shifting, separating—then a minute later, she’s flexing her brand new pair of legs. 

Veronica wiggles her toes. Her legs seem a little longer than last year, but still short enough to be unobtrusive—Good. The last thing she wants is anyone looking at her long enough to start getting ideas.

She breathes deeply, lungs contracting hungrily as they adjust to the surrounding air. The first year she’d been called to the surface, the summer after she’d turned eight, she’d been so freaked out by the absence of water that she’d dived back in the sea before her tail had even changed. But the tug of summer was relentless, and she’d eventually clambered back on to her rock, relaxing as her body learned to accommodate all of these new sensations. 

Her lips twist at the memory. Back when the summer surface trips were still the highlight of her year, not the object of her dread.

Veronica skims her hands along the rock formation until her fingers catch on the crevice. From the shallow opening, she pulls out her waterproof rucksack from where she’d stashed it at the end of last summer. The plastic zipper gives way to her quick fingers and she rifles through the collection of items she’s amassed over the years: human clothes, shoes, some paper money, and a thin pink razor. 

She still doesn’t quite understand why human women bother to cut the hair off their legs—she imagines it would be like trimming the cilia off her fins, useless and time consuming—but she’s learned over the years that girls with dark-haired legs tend to draw stares. 

And when her work depends entirely on  _ not _ being noticed, she’ll do any number of silly human things in order to fit in. 

Her favorite navy halter top catches her eye, and she pulls it on with some high-waisted shorts. This was in style last year, and human fashions surely can’t change that quickly—can they? 

She thumbs her slender wad of cash. Hopefully, after today’s work she’ll have more than enough for a shopping spree. 

The old routine of it relaxes her, and she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy that this is just any other summer, just another year of blending in with the humans and eating ice cream on the boardwalk and wandering the boutiques that line the cobblestone streets.  


Because safe in the bright, cheery sunshine, it’s easy to pretend that there’s no curse dogging her steps.

That this isn’t the summer she’s going to fall in love—and that one of those humans isn’t going to die. 

**Author's Note:**

> (visits the ocean for a day and immediately starts constructing an elaborate Riverdale mermaid au because apparently this is who I am now)  
> ANYWAY I'm having fun with this! Thanks for reading and I hope you'll stick along :-)


End file.
